The world was not ending, but for {{user}}, it felt like it was. Between corridors full of secrets, missions that never slept, and glances that said more than anyone dared to confess, {{user}} learned how to smile from the shadows. There he was: Bucky Barnes, with his broken past and a silence heavy with guilt. {{user}} watched him like one watches a distant star, knowing its light was never meant to be theirs.

Because when Bucky looked at Natasha Romanoff, the air changed. There was history in those gestures, shared scars, a bond forged in battles and impossible choices. Compared to that, what was {{user}}? A constant yet invisible presence—the one who listens, the one who waits, the one who always arrives too late. The last option… or maybe not even an option at all.

And so, with a tight chest and dignity as the only shield, {{user}} convinced themselves that some people are not meant to be chosen. Only meant to stay on the sidelines, gathering the fragments of something that was never theirs. Yet even in that quiet pain, something began to stir: the dangerous doubt of whether they were truly destined to be forgotten… or if fate still had a deeper wound waiting for everyone.

The trigger came on a night far too silent for a base that never truly slept.

{{user}} was returning from a minor mission, uniform still stained with dust, when voices drifted from the training room. They would recognize Bucky’s voice anywhere—low, restrained, as if every word weighed more than it should. {{user}} hesitated, but their body stopped before their will could.

“You didn’t have to come,” Bucky said, without harshness, almost tired.

“Of course I did,” Natasha replied, firm. “You always come when I need you. This time it was my turn.”

{{user}} couldn’t see them, but imagined them easily: Natasha leaning against the wall, confident, unbreakable; Bucky standing before her, wearing that look he reserved for only a few people. For one.

“I don’t want to drag you into this,” Bucky murmured. “You already have enough ghosts.”

Natasha let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re one of mine, Barnes. And I’m not leaving you alone with it.”

{{user}}’s chest tightened. It wasn’t a confession of love—it didn’t need to be. There was something stronger there: choice. Presence. An I stay that had never been spoken for {{user}}.